


The Concepts

by Godspeed_Cowboy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aromantic, Burnout - Freeform, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Concepts, Death, Depersonalization, Depressing, Depression, Derealization, Disorders, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Erotic Poetry, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Heavy topics, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Music, Memories, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Period talk, Periods, Pining, Poetic, Poetry, Rambling, References to Depression, Run-On Sentences, Self Confidence, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Slam Poetry, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Yearning, a lot of these poems are gonna hit close to home for some of y'all, a lot of this talks about femininity and girlhood/womanhood, cause that's how I grew up before realizing I wasn't Those Things, period, self love, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27970967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godspeed_Cowboy/pseuds/Godspeed_Cowboy
Summary: A collection of my poetry.
Relationships: None
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Suicidal

Hearts and hands intertwined, a crude imitation.

One set of eyes begging for touch, for love. And the other pitying, apathetic to their lover’s plight.

Lips sealed shut and pressed together, chaste, warm against cold.

It’s sweet, it’s gentle.

You’re on your back, and Death is above you.

So of course it does not stay soft, not for long.

Claws digging into the flesh of your arms, drawing blood.

Teeth at your neck, biting hard, hurting, like they’re trying to tear out your jugular.

It feels good, this self destructive behavior.

And you let it happen.

You let Death take you to the edge, such a tease.

You black out, ecstasy and regret in your head, pleas at the edge of your teeth.

You wake up the next morning, and your bed is cold, lonely, and Death has left you.

Death is never one to stay the night, not with you, not yet.

You get up, clean yourself of the red release along your body, because Death is not one for aftercare.

And you wait for the night to come, wait for your pseudo-lover to slip back under your covers, wait for Death to come and take to the edge once more.

And you hope that this time they don’t tease you with the promise of demise, like they always do.

It will probably happen anyways.

Oh well.


	2. Sappho

Bare feet against the wet asphalt, heels abandoned on the sidewalk a block back, streetlights guiding your way.

Your prom dress lifted with one hand, you’re other held tightly by a girl you drank cheap beer with at the park tonight.

In the distance, police sirens, and you swear you see their flashing lights out of the corners of your eyes.

You look at the girl holding your hand.

She is laughing, breathless, joy and excitement written across her face, hair flowing in the wind, cheeks flushed with alcohol and exertion. 

You think she looks beautiful like this.

You want to kiss her. 

You do not. Instead, you tighten your hold on her hand and run a little faster.

And then she looks at you with eyes that sparkle like the stars above the city.

Your heart swells with something indescribable, but it feels so, so good and you want to feel that again, God, please, let you feel that again.

And you smile back, genuine, and laugh with her, a sound booming from every part of you.

She seems to grow brighter with your joy.

You realize that for the first time in a long time, you are happy.

You make eye contact.

“I love you,” says your heart, the sweat of your hands, the look in your eyes.

“I love you, too,” says her laugh, the flutter of her lashes, the way she stares for a second too long.

Neither of you say this out loud but you both know what you want.

You laugh louder together as you run through the streets, chaotic and messy and torn apart, drunk and sloppy and too open emotionally, but feeling more alive than you ever have, feeling more free than you ever have.

Feeling more loved than you ever have.

All within this single moment, right here, right now, and you know you’ll remember this night for years to come.


	3. Lonely Ghost

There is a lonely ghost in your mirror.

It looks sad, depressed, hungry for so many things that you cannot give it.

You can’t stand the sight of it, can’t look in its eyes.

You cover all the mirrors in your house, but somehow, you still see it.

In the metal of the spoon, the glass of the window, and you give up on trying to hide it.

There is a lonely ghost in your mirror.

It becomes your only company, closed off from the world as you are.

It becomes your only friend.

But you still can’t look in its eyes, can’t man up enough to do it. 

But you can’t run from it forever.

There is a lonely ghost in your mirror.

You’re in the bathroom, staring at it, leaning against your sink.

You look into its eyes, because you are tired, you have given up on putting it off.

The ghost wears your skin, wears your face, as though it crept into your bedroom and stole it in the night.

You find that you do not care as much as you should.

There is a lonely ghost in your mirror.

It looks an awful lot like you. 

You don’t try to think about it much.

Denial is peace and ignorance is bliss.

But one day it hits you, really hits you.

There is a lonely ghost in your mirror.

And that ghost is you.


	4. Time Loop

I never like to think about time.

Time makes everything much more real, more concrete, unchanging as soon as the seconds pass.

And I hate it.

I hate it because it shows how much I have wasted, how much I have lost.

Sometimes, it feels mocking.

“Look,” it says, “Look at how everyone has gotten older, changed, and look at how you are still stuck in this endless loop that you could so easily break yet don’t do so out of fear. Coward.”

And time is right. 

I am a coward, as cowardly as can be.

And I hate that, too.

It’s something about myself that I want to change.

“I’m gonna do it, this time will be different,” I say, I always say.

And yet why? Why do I never change like I promised? Why does it never happen?

Why do I make such empty promises?

Perhaps it’s because I am afraid and want to comfort myself.

Because behind anger, there is always fear. It doesn’t matter what it is that you fear, all that matters is that it’s there.

And I hate that, much like I hate time and cowardice. 

But one of these days, it will change. 

It has to.

It needs to.

I can’t go on like this.

It will change. Not now, of course, but I promise. Soon.

Soon.

I promise this time will be different.


	5. Burnout

Sometimes, it is impossible to write.

Thousands of thoughts, and yet they cannot be articulated, not in the way I want them to be.

And sometimes, there is nothing at all, sometimes I can’t think of anything worth note.

I make so much, so fast, constantly, pumping out content for the masses, pleasing the people and boosting my ego.

But sometimes, it is impossible to write.

Sometimes, my pages stay blank. 

On those days, I do nothing but wallow in bed, miserable.

But they pass. 

They always do. 

And I throw myself back to the page, and I write.

And then I run out.

Some days, I am as blank as the pages I abandon.

And that’s ok.

Sometimes, you can’t do anything, and that’s ok.

It’s ok to feel burnt out, feel sad.

And I like that.

I like that it’s ok to be sad. 

When I am sad, I am given a break from everything.

When I am sad, I don’t need anything but the comfort of my bed, the music from my phone, and the water bottles by my bed.

I don’t need praise, I don’t need to be productive, I don’t even need to think.

And I love those days.

But they pass.

They always do.

And so I write, and write, and write.

Publish, publish, publish.

Think, think, think.

Say thanks for the praise, answer the questions, and move on to the next.

And when it gets tiring, I can always be sad.


	6. Daddy Issues

I try to be the daughter my dad wants me to be.

I try to meet his standards, try to be docile, try to be demure, try to be sweet.

I try to wear dresses and make up when I can, try to stay back and let him do the work.

But it’s hard. It’s hard being a daughter. It’s hard trying to be one for my dad.

It’s hard to bottle up the anger when a man like him belittles me with backhanded compliments and by talking behind my back, hard to hold back the poisonous words in my throat, hard to listen to him talk and talk and talk and not say anything, because if I say anything, I get mocked or insulted, told to mind my place, especially because I’m young, because apparently if you’re young, you don’t know a thing.

It’s hard to meet standards when they are constantly pushed, hard to focus on what’s around when he insists I need to focus on what’s ahead, hard to be the bigger person when he gets to say whatever he wants, get as loud as he wants, and I have to sit there and take it and talk calmly unless I want to make him angrier.

It’s hard to wear dresses and make up, even if I like to, because then I get made fun of for being girly, prissy, too conscious of my appearance, and when I do the opposite, I’m not feminine enough for his taste. 

It’s hard to let him do all the work, but I can’t help or suggest things because it makes him annoyed, agitated, and then he needs to take his anger out by bringing up things from the past and using them against me, against others.

It’s even harder to be the daughter my dad wants when I’m not even a girl. 

It’s hard to please a man like my dad.

But I try. I make the effort.

I put up with it because one day, I won’t have to have him in my life anymore.

And that’s the one thing that involves him that I look forward to.


	7. Blood and Selfhood

You’re bleeding again.

You should be used to this by now, and in a way, you are.

You know when it’s going to come, know what you need to care for yourself, know what you have to do when it hurts, know when to change out and clean up.

So yes, in a way, you are used to it. 

But, somehow, you are not.

You are not used to having it happen, and when you say that, you mean it in the way that says you don’t understand why it has to happen, it feels surreal. 

You don’t like it.

It makes you moody, emotional, depressed and snappy, gives people too many weaknesses to pick on.

It makes you feel sick, nauseous, of food and of others and of yourself, and then it turns around and makes you have cravings of all kinds.

It plays a big role in your life, bigger than it has any right to be, deciding your position in society, deciding how much money you get to spend on supplies.

Deciding on who you are, who you’ll be, and what.

And you don’t like that.

But you can’t really stop it, you don’t have the means to, don’t have any medications that can prolong it or make things easier for yourself, don’t have any money for any operations to permanently stop it, so you’ll have to stick it out until you can.

And you’ve already been sticking it out for five years, so three more won’t hurt. 

Just three more.

You can do this.

Red streaks run down your thighs.

You feel disgusted by it, by yourself.

Your everything hurts.

You don’t cry, not anymore, in a way it’s like self-harm for you.

There's too much noise.

You feel like anything can set you off, probably will, most likely will, definitely will.

Just three more years, just three more years, just three more years . . .

You’re not sure if you can last three more years.

You’re not sure if you want to.


	8. Eat

You don’t think you have an eating disorder.

You don’t starve yourself and you don’t over eat.

You don’t throw it all back up once it’s gorged down and you don’t force yourself to eat more than you have to.

You aren’t obsessed with calories, with fats, with carbohydrates, or whatever it is that people worry about, worry themselves sick over.

So obviously, you do not have an eating disorder.

But it’s pointed out to you regardless of what you think.

You don’t eat for long periods of time, but you make sure you eat at least.

But that’s not good enough, apparently.

You just forget to eat, is all, you don’t mean to, but it doesn’t mean anything, especially because you always eat in the end.

But what you eat never has nutritional value.

What you eat never helps you grow or mature, never provides what you need.

What you eat is never good for you.

What you eat sometimes actually hurts you.

What you eat is of no help to you, and it is certainly unkind to you.

Sometimes it’s too little, and sometimes it’s too much, but at least you’re eating, keeping it down all the way and limiting it when you realize what you’re doing. 

And you eat it anyway. 

What else can you do?

Not much, really, not much.

You are helpless with this stuff, weak.

But you ignore it.

Sure, you don’t eat correctly, but’s it better than nothing, better than too much, right?

You don’t think you have an eating disorder.

But you probably do.


	9. The Inherent Beauty of Concepts

A concept.

It’s something that has yet to be made, but could be.

It’s a possibility, an opportunity.

It’s out there, it’s up for grabs, a prompt, an idea.

And there are thousands of these things, these concepts, millions, billions, trillions.

Some are public, out in the open for everyone to see and use.

Some are private, kept in people’s minds, kept like secrets for their own reasons.

Some are a bit of both, half revealed while the rest is up to interpretation, even if the creator knows the actual answer.

And concepts are beautiful, like this.

They are simple in their beauty, and they can become extravagant once you expand on them.

Or you can keep them simple, keep them small, and they’re just as lovely.

Concepts are things to find simple joys in.

And they can grow, they can shrink.

They can change.

And change is an important aspect of beauty.

That’s what makes it beautiful.

The fact that, if you so will it, a concept can change, just like that. 

With the snap of your fingers, with the blink of your eye, boom, pow, change right there in front of your very eyes.

It’s like your own big bang.

And it’s changing.

And it’s beautiful.

And it’s a concept.


	10. Aromanticism

The concept of being in love is something foreign to me.

I do not mean this in the sense that I have never loved, ever, I loved back then and I love now, platonic and familial.

But romance is something that eludes me. 

I have never been in love romantically.

I have had obsession yes, or crushes if you wish to call them that, and I have my likes and my favorites.

But never have I ever been in love.

And I find it interesting, yet disappointing.

It is not that I do not want to feel it, but rather that I can’t.

I am incapable of loving someone in such a way.

And I want to know what it feels like, one half out of curiosity, and one half out of desperate want.

Curiosity, because everyone always says that it’s something grand, and I want to know why it is.

Desperate want, because I want to experience loving like that for myself, want to experience being loved like that and returning the affections fully.

But I can’t.

So all I am left with is the thought, the idea of it, of what people tell me and what I see.

In a way, I suppose I love it, this idea.

I am in love with the idea of being in love.


End file.
